Thursday, April 28, 2011


What is it about morning that makes birds
At the first glint of dawn begin to sing,
Bringing as well to me a rush of words
To thread along a tight iambic string?

A kind of joy, I guess, that darkness will
Give way again to day, and life return
From slumber’s shadowland, inert and still
As death, and yet once more the sun will burn.